


Hobson's Choice

by FortuneSurfer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Camaraderie, Chilton Has His Own Little Soap Opera Really, Dog talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, May Or May Not Inspire A Series Of Works, Post-Season/Series 02, So Not Entirely Canon Compliant, Somewhat Alternative Timeline After The Events Of Mukozuke, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 05:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17258201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortuneSurfer/pseuds/FortuneSurfer
Summary: Matthew has a visitor - he and Will Graham discover that they have a lot to talk about.





	Hobson's Choice

**Author's Note:**

> Hobson's choice means no real choice at all - the only options being to either accept what is offered or refuse it. The expression is effectively the same as 'take it or leave it'. (c)
> 
> OST: White Lies — Time To Give
> 
> Achtung: not beta read.

They brought him here without telling him why, but he better starts getting used to this kind of treatment. Again. 

Privacy room doesn’t give his mind lot to work with, and so Matthew stares at the handcuffs on his wrists.

He turns his hand so that the angle of incidence of the light changes. Now it’s easier for the eyes to read the words engraved on the handcuffs’ bracelets.  _Property of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane._

That’s right, this is exactly what he is now.

Matthew pouts scornfully and turns away - now he is facing his own reflection in the glass wall of the privacy room. The white color of his orderly uniform definitely suited him better. Matthew meets his own gaze. He doesn’t find fear in his eyes and is satisfied by it.

He served his time in a place like this once, he can do it again. Not necessarily that he has to.

His reflection raises its chin self-confidently, challenging him. Matthew knows everything he needs to about the entrances and the exits, about the local security system and the personnel. Which raises the question why Chilton transferred him here. After all that’s happened in this hospital under his administration, he really should have known better.

Seven more minutes pass, according to the clock on the opposite wall, before the security guard that has brought him here shows up. He is followed by a visitor.

Matthew’s mouth gets dry and his palms get wet.

 _Will Graham_. Will Graham is visiting him.

…He looks tired, but compared to the way he looked while still being a patient inside these walls, this tiredness is a handsome vacation suntan.

Matthew tries to figure out what he is discussing with the security guard – still not giving the inside of the room a single glance – but the wall muffles their voices; still, Matthew can make out those specific, collected, spurring up intonations of an ex-cop who’s registering facts and giving orders. Will Graham outside of the room is self-confident and in control.

Matthew catches himself blandly smiling.

Finally, the door opens, and Will Graham enters the room.

He treads carefully as if he were stepping into the cage with a resting tiger. He stops without going all the way to the table – the door closes behind his back – he takes off his glasses and pointedly puts them into the pocket of his jacket.

Their eyes lock.  _Now_  Matthew is pleased to see no fear in the eyes of Will Graham. He is  _seen_ , really _seen_.

And he is confronted by a composedness which is softer around the edges than the state the man was in outside. There are curiosity and a hint of amusement right beneath the surface, and they break the surface with a semblance of a light, uncertain smile. It’s not particularly intimate, but there is a probing sympathy in it.

Matthew is a little too absorbed into this, but he manages to archly tilt his head in response.

At this moment, they have a common ground – both enjoying having a conversation that won’t be picked up by the administration’s mics. But their time is limited, and sure enough this secretive twosome between them doesn’t last long. Matthew is the first to speak up:

“To see you walking as a free man is a very inspiring sight, Mister Graham.”

Mister Graham raises his eyebrows and slowly approaches the table. His answer is serious and teasing at the same time:

“That’s some admirable stoicism, Matthew.”

Yes, Will Graham casually drops his name at the end of the sentence, and Matthew knows it’s a treat for a hungry animal he is (and very likely a trap). He is eager to take it, though; he is hungry. And he thoroughly enjoys the after-taste in his ears; to be known is too sating.

Mister Graham refuses to take a seat, his palm and his fingers just make acquaintance with the back of the chair instead. He is standing half-turned to the window, which gives Matthew the opportunity to admire his features from a different angle.

“When I was on the other side of this table, I used to envy the freedom of others – they had something the lack of which was fundamental for the reality of my situation, and yet they were absent-minded about it similar to how they didn’t notice that they were breathing.”

“Take the rights of a man from him, and you’ll get a bird without wings.”

“Now they took your wings.”

“I tell myself: at least, one of us is free.”

Mister Graham laughs quietly at this, but it’s an uncheerful, thoughtful sound. 

“’Us.’” The word is allowed to be washed by the stuffy silence of the room for a few moments. “I see, you stand by your words.” Mister Graham directs his attention to the view outside the window, somehow not entirely able to face this subject. 

“What other choice do I have if I mean them?” Matthew accompanies his question with a smooth gesturing of his hands, making the handcuffs’ chain rattle quietly in the almost empty room. He points out that he is essentially bound by his words in the same way he is bound to this table.  

Mister Graham seems to be genuinely reflecting upon his observation.

“Hobson’s choice.”

He doesn’t go on, and so Matthew continues just for the sake of maintaining a dialog, sharing the thing that has been on his mind lately:

 “Life is all about choices. Good choices, bad choices...”

Mister Graham almost interrupts him:

“And was doing me that favor a good choice?” as if he were trying to pick him up on something. He is no longer looking out of the window.

Matthew goes still for a moment and then shifts in his chair and states phlegmatically:

“It depends on why you are here today, Mister Graham,” giving Will Graham the opportunity to give him a reason, inviting him to do so with his eyes and raised eyebrows.

Mister Graham keeps eye contact with him and tentatively licks his lips, visibly calculating something for himself. He turns away and starts to walk across the room, and watching him Matthew realizes that by refusing to sit down Mister Graham not just surrenders to his lecturing habits, he is – maybe even unconsciously – disrupting the spatial pattern he associates with a conversation in here. He is rubbing something invisible between his thumb and index finger, as Matthew saw him do many times before, and he is starting with the facts, as he usually does. Because  _it all comes from the evidence_ , right?

Matthew feels privy to the concept of Will Graham, noting all of this to himself.

“In the interview you gave to Freddie Lounds, you claimed that you didn’t intend to make any statement to the public. But there was one. Clear as day. ‘Will Graham had nothing do with it, it was all me. And I‘m all about bats in the belfry.’ You were my agency in the world. Again.” 

Matthew, who is all ears right now, is making small encouraging nods, even though Mister Graham is not looking at him.

“But you know that I’m not the Chesapeake Ripper. And you knew that when you decided to help me.”

“I was playing an idiot. I am not an idiot.”

“And yet you let even me think that you were. I don’t understand, Matthew.” Mister Graham stops and looks at him, frowning in confusion. “Why, why not just tell me everything?”

Matthew considers asking, _would it have changed anything?_

But the look on Mister Graham’s face makes him reconsider. He doesn’t immediately find a way to put in words his biggest strength and probably his biggest weakness.

“I like to play.” He omits the part about him being afraid of rejection. “And this time, I outplayed myself. I pushed my luck.” Mister Graham seems to be carefully processing the input, and Matthew adds, keeping his voice low: “At least, it was for someone important this time.”

Mister Graham doesn’t miss it.

“Was it the same with whoever’s house it was that you burned down?” His tone is very subtle, and now he is the man who is approaching the tiger. To give him medicine or to put him down?

Matthew smirks.

“Oh, you read my file. I’m flattered.”

There must have been a lot in his file, even if some – most important – parts had been expunged by him years ago. And now Mister Graham knows about his special relationship with fire. Matthew actually finds it exciting. He doesn’t feel exposed or disadvantaged, he just feels  _seen_.

Mister Graham sits down, letting out a barely audible groan: Matthew heard him doing this many-many times, he probably has some lower back issues.

“I suppose we’re as even now, as fellow hawks should be,” says Mister Graham, and he has a point, even if he’s just prompting him for an answer here. He’s genuinely curious (it’s in his eyes, _clear as day_ ), and he’s referencing that kinship metaphor, and eventually Matthew is surprised to find out that he can’t resist.

“No. It wasn’t the same. You’re a very special experience for me, Mister Graham.”

Mister Graham swallows at this, immediately trying to conceal it (by clearing his throat) as well as the earnest and vulnerable look momentary peeking through the thick armor of his defences.

He puts his hands on the table and says, propping on his elbows:

“Quid pro quo.” Their hands are far away from touching, but now they’re sharing the table top, and – once again – a common ground. “Do you know how I could instantly tell that it was someone else – you – who killed the bailiff, Matthew?” Mister Graham has an eager, almost venturesome gleam in his eyes.

Matthew feeds on his enthusiasm. And he can’t suppress a smile at the thought that the man has chosen just the right bait.  _He’s just about to see his supernatural empathy at work._ Matthew’s concentration is sharp as the knife that cut Hannibal Lecter.

“Tell me, Mister Graham.”

“I recreated your state of mind, and I saw that what you did was… merciful.” Mister Graham makes a pause, and Matthew is willing to think that there is approval showing in his features before he starts to speak of Lecter: “For Hannibal, murder is a divine act, and the divine is inhumane.”

“Well, screw him,” says Matthew bluntly, and it actually makes Mister Graham snicker.

“I couldn’t agree more.” He’s smirking, but somehow his tiredness gets much more visible. Matthew suddenly feels a tugging urge inside of him to give him support – without knowing how exactly. “You, on the other hand… Your attempt on his life was shockingly sentimental, wasn’t it?”

In fact, Matthew tried to masquerade his assassination as rivalry between serial killers ( _pretender to the throne_ , Mister Graham once said), but of course, Mister Graham would see through this disguise, and Matthew had very much hoped so.

“I wanted him to suffer for how he put you through hell.”

“I’m afraid that it wasn’t in your power, Matthew. Physical pain annoys him, he isn’t afraid of it.”

“I told him that we are friendly, you and I,” counters Matthew and tilts his head. “That must have stung.”

Mister Graham looks curious. He muses:

“I imagine it did.” And then he continues, as if trying to thoroughly taste this attractive idea. “Some overlooked, interchangeable, nameless orderly – exactly the type of people the Ripper preys upon – picking up on his habits, outsmarting him. Getting what he wanted so desperately.”

The last line conjures a smug smile on Matthew’s face. Even if Mister Graham just puts himself into Lecter’s shoes right now, he doesn’t seem to contest this thesis. Matthew is feeling hopeful about something because of that; he isn’t sure about what, though, and just basks in the feeling.   

“So, you came here to tell me that I was half as good as I thought,” Matthew smiles. “That’s mean, Mister Graham.”

Mister Graham chuckles.

“Well, I didn’t say that I don’t appreciate your intention.”

His tone and his wording are simply an expression of gratitude for the attentiveness shown, but Matthew is confident that he heard a flirtatious note as well. He can feel his own heart rate increasing.

“It felt good, you know,” says Mister Graham wistfully all of a sudden, looking somewhere past his left ear, slowly rubbing his palms against each other. “To have someone finally listen to me. Make something for me not because I pulled the wool over their eyes, but because they believed me… in me. I needed that.” He says it in a steady voice, but he has stopped the rubbing, and Matthew realizes that there is a tremor in Mister Graham’s hands.

“And I wanted you to know that I did it. I made him suffer, Matthew.”

Mister Graham looks at him now, and there is a crooked smile on his face; he feels torn between the desire to feel his hard-earned triumph and some pathological inability to do so. Matthew grows serious, sensing that they’re getting to the heart of the matter of this visit. He asks:

“Did you kill him or catch him?”

“Oh, he fled.”

“And others suffered because of that.”

“Yes,” Mister Graham confesses, swallows and closes his eyes.

“How bad did he harm you, Mister Graham?”

The tiger in him is flapping its tail now.

Mister Graham articulates very well each of the words he is saying next: “I am dressed in scars some of which will be never visible to anyone but me, Matthew.” His tone is almost provoking; clearly, he is still trying to process whatever evil has happened to him after their last rendezvous.

Matthew is feeling dangerous, wild flame spreading underneath his skin. Mister Graham is most likely feeling reverberations of that, too: he proceeds to explain, now sounding almost apologetically (he knows that Matthew cares about him, it must be the reason why?):

“I was our damn bait, I couldn’t possibly be at the back of the pack.”

Last word quickly triggers an association, and Matthew gladly allows himself to get distracted:

“Did he harm your dogs?”

Mister Graham looks surprised and somewhat suspicious. But he answers the question, after a brief consideration:

“One of them. By proxy. Thankfully, it has already recovered.”

“What’s its name?”

“Buster.”

“After Keaton?”

“Yes, after Keaton. He’s a Jack Russel Terrier. One of my few strays that have an identifiable breed. I am surprised and grateful to his previous owners that they didn’t crop his ears,” Matthew quickly glances at Mister Graham’s hands: he is relieved to see that they have almost ceased to shake. “He has quite a dog-exhibition-exterior and character, so, they could have hurt him, if they had wanted to.”

Matthew is feeling brave and comments:  “I remember that he looked well when Alana Bloom was taking care of him.”

“When did you see my dog?” Mister Graham squints – openly suspicious.

“I made a trip to your house in Wolf Trap once. Dr Bloom was there, too. I watched her playing with your dogs in the fields through a second-story window.” There is a ringing moment of uncertainty, even of a borderline mistrust. And so Matthew pouts and gets the elephant out of the room: “I wouldn’t have hurt Dr Bloom if she had seen me.”

Mister Graham nods with unspoken relief.

Frankly, Matthew doesn’t like Dr Bloom, he finds the woman annoying, incompetent and problematic. But the fact that she isn’t a friend Mister Graham needs doesn’t mean that she is a foe. Right now.

“You went there because it wasn’t enough just to see me, you wanted to see through my eyes, too,” offers Mister Graham quietly.

“And move through the spaces you inhabited in your previous life.”

They look each other in the eyes, and for the briefest of moments of accidental miscalculated mutual openness Matthew knows: this is it, this is when his touch won’t be rejected – it will be welcome. But before he finds the courage to touch his hand for who knows why, Mister Graham is already sighing and rubbing his face with both of them.

Matthew feels disappointed. But Mister Graham’s tired gesture somehow communicates everything he needs to know about how difficult it is to trust anyone (and his own feelings?) for him – and so, maybe, it would have been premature.

“And now yet another life lies in front of me.” Mister Graham sounds like he’s talking to himself, but Matthew isn’t offended by that – on contrary, this is a clear indication that he’s been brought into the close circle of people that Will Graham feels comfortable around. Matthew is honored, and he knows he fully deserves it. “In it,” Mister Graham continues, “Hannibal is on the run, and Abigail Hobbs is alive and his hostage.” He adds coldly: “Or isn’t, this part remains a speculation.” 

 _The_  Abigail Hobbs?.. Judging by Mister Graham’s expression – yes, he’s talking about  _the_  Hobbs girl. Matthew raises his eyebrows, vaguely impressed either by her ability to escape death for so long or by her failure to remain decidedly alive – he isn’t sure.

“The girl appears to be trapped in limbo.”

“No, she’s just on vacation with the Devil,” snaps Mister Graham, and Matthew takes a note to avoid the subject of Abigail Hobbs until Mister Graham takes the edge off his conflicted emotions about her.

Mister Graham looks through him, past him. He swallows hard.

“I know where he is. I know that he waits for me there. And I know that sooner or later I will go there and finish what we’ve started. But I came here. Because every time I look in the mirror, I see that I am not ready to go, and I see my death and deaths of many others.”

Mister Graham goes silent. He is the embodiment of a man who knows what the future holds for him and would have very much preferred not to know it. The room appears darker after his words. Thankfully, Matthew has never been afraid of dark places. And if he has ever believed in someone – this person is in front of him.

He asks Mister Graham, temporarily oblivious to his reality of being a (patient) prisoner: “What can I do for you, Mister Graham?”

The smile Mister Graham gives him is a small one – evidently, he is grateful for the very fact of his initiative, – but there is such warmth in his eyes that Matthew can feel it sipping inside of him and melting inside of his chest.

Mister Graham sighs and gets his head together.

“I contacted my ex-lawyer, Leonard Brauer, and managed to persuade him to take your case. At first, he didn’t want to, because the incident with your special package is still fresh in his memory.” Matthew briefly reminds himself to apologize for that when he sees the man next time. “But in the end he could not resist the opportunity to “rebrand your defence,” because of all the buzz surrounding Hannibal the Cannibal right now.”

“That’s what they call him now?” asks Matthew in disbelief.

“Thanks to Frederick,” snorts Mister Graham, very aware of the mics around them. “I never got the opportunity to find out how much I could rely on his lawyering, but Brauer sounded fairly confident that he’ll get you a probation.”

“Are you… are you going to be a witness?”

Matthew does his best to avoid being too overt about how he finds the idea that Mister Graham is going to protect his interests, is going to be  _his_  agency in the world now (as a matter of fact, he is already), a little overwhelming.

“I could – and would – like to, but it depends on whether Brauer will find it reasonable and the court acceptable.” Mister Graham smiles at him, but the corners of his mouth are pinched. “Regardless of this, I can visit you here. Every two or three days. If you want my visits, of course.”

It’s impulsive – Matthew doesn’t realize how he extends his hand. The next thing he knows – there is rattling of his chain again and he is almost lying on the table top – Mister Graham’s hand covered by his own.

He wheezes: “What an odd thing to say, Mister Graham.”

Mister Graham is tense, and feeling and seeing this, Matthew is ready to back off any moment. If the man gives him a sign. Mister Graham’s eyes hold on to the scar on his chin.

“I wanted you to feel that you’re not alone.”

There is a knock on the door, and Matthew’s first instinct is to squeeze his hand, not to take it off. He does the latter almost immediately after that, though. It's not about them breaking the rules - the security guard isn’t even looking at them.

“It means we have a couple of minutes left,” Mister Graham explains and cautiously takes both his hands off the table top, without looking at Matthew.

Matthew takes the hint and changes the subject (still feeling the blood knocking in his ears).

“What’s the Chilton’s part of the bargain, by the way?”

“Oh, me and Frederick, we took advantage of each other’s curiosity.” Mister Graham’s tone says more about this deal – or rather his attitude towards it – than his words do. “He needs material for his new book about Hannibal the Cannibal. And obviously about me, too.”

It was predictable – what else could it be? – but still, Matthew is caught off guard.

“You’re making a very big sacrifice for me, Mister Graham.”

“You did me a favor, Matthew, and I want to return it while I still can.”

“I’m just saying, if the word gets out, people will think we’re in love.” He could warn him using less uncompromising words, but Matthew doesn’t. Maybe he’s testing something.

Mister Graham is very dismissive: “I survived encephalitis and Hannibal Lecter. I think some juicy tabloid gossip won’t be my demise at this point.” He also could have branded it as “unfounded,” but he didn’t.

There is another knock, and Mister Graham stands up from his chair, he is ready to take on his mask again.

Matthew is hurriedly memorizing everything about him in this moment for later, simultaneously looking for a way to make him stay just for a little longer. A very real question springs to his mind.

He tilts his head.  _Could he have been missing the most important thing all this time?_

“And if I get out of here with Brauer’s help – what’s after that, Mister Graham?” He doesn’t sound accusatory – challenging is a better word. Demanding respect.  _Are we even, Mister Graham? Do you trust me?_

Mister Graham freezes. Then, he takes out he glasses but doesn’t put them on just yet.

“After that, you are welcome to take your own path. Or you can help me catch Hannibal the Cannibal in Europe.” He’s smirking.  

“I knew that. You’re willing to use me again,” Matthew says, and clarifies, responding to the look Mister Graham gives him, before the man can start defending himself or whatever: “It’s alright. I don’t mind. Just be open about it next time.”

Mister Graham shows that he’s accepting this as a fair condition with a slow nod. On the way out, he stops and turns to him.   

“I think we will find out what a pair of hawks working together can accomplish.”

Matthew snorts and chuckles. At this point, he’s unsure if the man is just playing with him with this very specific choice of words, but he’s very certain that even then Will Graham enjoys this game, too, and this is really the only part that matters.

He will spend the night thinking about him and his last words, all sorts of plans starting to take shape in his head.

And sometime later, in the early hours of the morning, Matthew will dream of feathers spreading from the wound on his shoulder, until he has his wings (again) and can take off the ground to the sound of Will Graham’s quiet laughter. Allowing his voice to guide him.  

**the end.**

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, folks, first of all: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. I am currently looking for a beta reader. If you are interested: please, contact me!! ♥♥♥


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